


Bury My Despair

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there is no calm after the storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury My Despair

Dean leaves more than a handful of texts, but Castiel's not answering.

He's not sleeping, and he knows it's late. He's been drinking too much and thinking too much. The neon sign outside stutters like it's fucking mocking him. One jagged flash of colour, then the next.

Sam's next door and Dean doesn't know what he's doing. Dean doesn't know anything. The whole world and the inside of his head feel the same, full up and empty at the same time. They're all sinking. They're all sinking in the muck and no one gives a shit.

One moment Castiel isn't there and the next he is. Standing still and alien stiff in the darkness beside the bed. Like someone carved him straight out of the night. Dean wants to know what you use after you've burned through everything you've got. Because he doesn't have a clue what to say to the angel. What the hell do you say to something like this. Like he knows, like he's expected to know. Exactly what reassurances does he have left to give. He has nothing, fucking nothing except maybe sympathy and booze, and he doubts Castiel wants either.

Castiel doesn't speak. He drags the bottle from him, the heavy, almost empty weight of it clattering across the carpet. Then he's close and cold and smelling like the rain-edged wind from outside. The dirty, ragged, city smell of it. Castiel pushes just a little too hard, knee digging painfully into Dean's thigh when he pushes him back on the bed far enough to straddle him. Cold hands pulling Dean's head back so they're all but breathing into each other.

He makes what he wants obvious, in a way he's never done before.

Dean thinks he wants that too, wants to just bury this in something, needs to bury it and the booze wasn't working anyway. But this time it's not just his pain.

"We don't have to do this," Dean says. He knows how rough his voice sounds. The taste of too much scotch on his tongue already.

"I want to," Castiel's voice is flat and hard. He's already stripping Dean's shirt from him in quick, efficient movements, hands shaking in a way that Dean can't help but notice. His kisses are too hard, fingers not gentle, or careful. They're rough enough to sting where they fall and maybe that's good too. Good in a way Dean knows is self-destructive bullshit that he should probably be stopping. But instead he's lifting his hips so Castiel can tug his jeans down. And Dean's not exactly fighting, he's snapping off buttons and dragging white cotton down the angel's arms so hard it tears.

There's a barely contained desperation in Castiel that Dean's never seen before. Like maybe the angel thinks he can burn this away, burn this all away. Dean's fairly sure that Castiel _wants_ it to hurt, and there's a sick, dead feeling in his gut that feels horribly familiar.

Not like this.

Castiel wasn't supposed to end up like this.

He eases away, draws Castiel's hands to a stop, and they flex for a second in his, like they're fighting the urge to just shake him free and _take_ again.

"Cas, this isn't what you need."

"How can you possibly know what I need," Castiel says. His voice is one thick roll of tightness and anger. He pulls his hands free, but doesn't try and touch him again.

"Cas."

Castiel makes a noise, deep in his throat, something sharp and caught. The rough beginnings of an inhale gone wrong. Dean's hands fall to his waist, holding instead of pulling.

"Cas, you don't have to do this."

Castiel shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. Opens his mouth to form words and then swallows like there's something wrong with his throat.

Dean gets it, stupidly, all at once, and it's so sharp and awful that it hurts.

"Cas," he says again, quieter.

Castiel's next inhale is thready, a gasp that goes on too long.

"It's ok," Dean says roughly. Even though he knows it's not. He knows that nothing's going to be ok, nothing at all. Not any more. Not this. God, especially not this.

This is pretty much where they hit the ground.

"Let it go," Dean tells him. He doesn’t care that his voice isn't much better. That it's a gravel drag of hurt.

Castiel's fingers dig too tight into his shoulder and waist, and every breath comes out rough and uneven, like he doesn't know how. Like he _can't._

Dean's not even close to prepared for the slow roll of water down one cheek and Castiel is still shaking his head in blunt, ragged refusal even as he draws in one breath after another and they're coming out as sounds now. Raw, lost sounds that carve Dean to pieces, to fucking _pieces._. Because Castiel is not supposed to break. It's not supposed to be like this. They're not supposed to end up here.

He tightens his hands on Castiel like he can hold him together. Like he could ever hope to hold him together. But he can't stop himself from trying because what else can he do. What else can any of them do.

Castiel's next exhale comes out as noise, a quiet, steady shake that Dean can't even look at. He stares at Dean in bright panic. Like he thinks he's broken, like he thinks there's something _wrong_ with him. Dean winds an arm round his waist, and gathers him close, tucks his face against his throat and calls himself a coward. But Castiel curves into him, all breath and warmth and deep awkward sobs that leave Dean swallowing his own ache. Head thumping sickly, fingers dug in so tight they're going numb.

He's making useless, meaningless noises into Castiel's hair. Feeling every hitching breath in and gasping, shaking breath out like they were his own.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.


End file.
